


Symphony

by Anarchyinplasma



Series: Semblances: A study [3]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Gen, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 17:45:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5879938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarchyinplasma/pseuds/Anarchyinplasma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What might linger on the edge of consciousness for someone with a unique relation to metal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Symphony

**Author's Note:**

> This was in part inspired by a similar piece I read a while ago concerning Magneto from X-Men
> 
> To be honest with you I'm not too happy with how this ends, it just kind stops, so I might write more at a later date, but I wanted it up so I could start my next part, which will be Summer. Nevertheless, enjoy.

Pyrrha had always regarded metal a little differently, compared to most other people, it sings to her, she can tell the base elements in an alloy, from the sound only she can hear, just on the edge of consciousness. It's a low whine in the low end of purity, all thick and distorted from the other materials clinging to it; but pure metals are a symphony indeed, copper a low rumbling bass tone. Tungsten is the opposite end of the scale, a high note, clear and pure that rings for miles. 

She knows what shape a metal has been contorted into, whether it was cast, hammered into shape, injection moulded, everything, all from the sound it makes. Sterilised metal though, is a different story.

If she enters a hospital it starts as soon as she's within the walls, the metal is screaming, a deafening crescendo trying to overwhelm her, and other metal is drowned out. She had to be carried out, limp and boneless, at five years old, after collapsing into a heap in the reception area. Writhing in agony more the deeper they took her into the building.

When she's out though, no matter where she is, the symphony returns, it's welcoming, a surging melody after the harsh, nail biting panic in the medical centres.

Miló and Akoúo̱ are unique, finely detailed, she knows them on a level of clarity she could never achieve with anything else, made with her own hands and tempered in a traditional mistral forge, quenched in oil and delicately shaped through the final steps with her own manipulation. They're nothing like as complex as Crescent Rose, nor as finely sculpted as Myrtenaster, but they are hers, and they cater to her well.

Miló is a deep rumbling bass line, constantly in the back of her mind and a comforting familiarity, Akoúo is a strident soprano, unwavering in tone but flexible in pitch, and of course, the concert of the two is one of her favourite sounds.


End file.
